


An Outcast's lies

by Belladonnatheblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Gen, Murder, One Shot, Orphanage, Pre-Hogwarts Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle-centric drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24088699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonnatheblack/pseuds/Belladonnatheblack
Summary: Tom Riddle was different.They didn’t like him. They didn’t want to play with him. He was always pushed away, because he was that Tom. The weird one.The freak.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	An Outcast's lies

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short drabble I wrote years ago.

Tom Riddle was different.

He knew it, the matrons knew it, and the other kids in the orphanage knew it. So, it was not a surprise that his childhood passed by without a single friend by his side.

He was always an introvert. Rather than play outside with all the other little boys, he would stay in his small room reading books far beyond his age level.

He was far superior to the other brainless snotty brats he had the misfortune of living with. He didn’t need them.

There was a time when Tom longed to play with the other kids. But he was different; he was quiet and polite, he was _strange_.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t want to play with him. He was always pushed away, because he was _that_ Tom. The weird one.

The _freak._

He used to watch the kids laugh, chasing each other and playing games. He would try to ignore the twist of longing in his chest, but it hurt so much. Maybe they would let him join if he asked nicely, or if he acted like the other kids—loud and carefree.

They never did.

He was seven years old and battered on the ground, unable to get up, when he stopped caring. He felt light headed, and the sun was glaring down at him, the harsh light stinging.

He felt the blood pooling beneath him, the crimson tendrils seeping into his vision, a testament of how he would never fit in.

His bruises healed, but Tom never did.

He would never be that helpless insecure child again. If the children would never accept him, than that was fine. He was better than them.

He would be great, his future bright and colorful. He would be _different_. If they want a freak, then a freak they will get.

He was eight years old, and staring up at the limp bunny hanging down from the rafters when he decided he liked being a freak.

Michel was crying loudly for his precious pet, and their eyes met. Tom smiled, a cruel and ugly thing, a crack in the façade. Michel’s eyes widened in comprehension.

The other kids never did bother him after that.

The matrons noticed the change. They blamed him for scaring the kids, but they didn’t do anything more than threaten him. They were all terrified of him. The room would become completely silent when he entered. Eyes would follow his every movement, always on guard, like he was a deadly predator.

He reveled in the fear.

He was ten when he made his first kill. Susan, an unpleasant little pug faced girl, who was spoilt rotten by her rich parents. She went to the same school as him.

Her mistake had been to steal his things for a laugh.

The teacher didn’t believe him when he told them.

_‘Why would she steal your things?’_ he heard the underlying disdain in her tone.

When he cornered her after school, he was just planning to roughen her up a little. But things escalated, and before he knew it, a shard of glass was lodged into her throat, and his hands were covered in blood.

He felt panic flood him, and looked around fervently, hoping that no one saw.

The park was empty.

With trembling hands, he tore off his shirt to wipe the blood on her and stem the flow, to stop it from leaving trails.

He gazed at the ground—there wasn’t any blood on the grass or the pavement, _thank the gods_.

He dragged her into the trees, and deep into the woods. He felt his heart thumping frantically against his chest, and the adrenaline roaring inside his veins.

He saw the small running stream of water and sighed in relief. He could wash of the blood there, and by the time anyone would think to search the wood, the blood tainted water would be gone.

Now he just had to get rid of the body. He stared at the lifeless body of his classmate. Her eyes were glazed and lifeless, and her face was twisted into a horrified silent scream. An idea came to him.

He dropped to his knees and began digging the dirt underneath him. The earth was soft and moist, it made things easier. He dug frantically, as fast as his small hands could manage, desperation rising inside him. He didn’t have much time.

He used his special powers to speed up the process. The ones that can make the bullies hurt, the one that can make things float.

The sun has set by the time he was done, and the air had grown chilly. He didn’t want to stay in that place, so he hurriedly washed himself in the stream and got out of the forest.

He snuck in to his room through the window, and changed out of his damp clothes immediately. The small puddle he left on the floor was cleaned with an old shirt.

He checked to make sure no one had been in his room. The door was still locked and he felt relief wash over him. He made a habit of locking the door whenever he left—he had an extra pair of keys he stole from the matron. No one knows he came back late.

He got into bed, suddenly exhausted, as the days activities caught up to him. They would probably question him tomorrow, but for now, he was safe. He would make up some story, and they would believe him.

Because he knew how to lie sweetly when he needed to.


End file.
